Yellow Matter Custard
by Peacenik
Summary: Someone new's coming to Hogwarts, only four years late. There's something about her Dumbledore's not telling, but two things are for sure: 1.Draco cant help but take an interest in her, and 2.she's kinda familiar... but no one realizes it yet. Who she is
1. After The Outing

When Professor Dumbledore stood up, a few of the students were surprised. The Professor ordinarily spoke after the new first-years were showed inside the double doors of the Great Hall. But then again, "ordinarily" wasn't much of a way to describe the Headmaster, so no one thought too much of it.

The Professor smiled down at them from behind the barrier of his half-moon spectacles, omniscient as always. Tented fingers light on the table, waiting for absolute silence. He got it in only a few moments; the air with which he held himself requested especial attention.

"Students," he called to them. To Ron Weasley, his voice seemed even more papery than it had last year. Although Ron hated to admit it (even to himself), he knew Dumbledore was getting old. Hell, he _was _old, even for a wizard. Instead of exuding both a feel of ancientness and power, like a four-thousand-year-old pyramid, he seemed now like a crumbled ruin of an archaic castle. Cold and forsaken. Not by his students—or at least, not all of them—but by the people of the wizarding world who mattered; like Cornelius Fudge, like the reporters of the _Daily Prophet. _

"Damned Skeeter," he muttered. He was rewarded with a sharp elbow from Hermione.

"Pay _attention,_" she hissed. Ron had missed the first few words of Dumbledore's speech, but they were mostly greetings. With a small effort, Ron tuned back in.

"—And although I know all of you are looking forward to embracing you new fellow students, there will be an… even _newer_ student in your midst. Despite the fact that she should be in fifth year, it was discovered during your holidays that this girl has a latent talent for magic that wasn't revealed when she was eleven. And although some of the Ministry argued against it, I highly insisted that this girl come to our school with an average fifth-year's understanding of magic given to her. So, a Ministry official went to California, where she lives—"

An immediate buzz washed over the room. Hermione Granger felt a slight constriction in her chest. An American? At Hogwarts? It shouldn't be so much of a big deal. It was only a person from across an ocean.

And yet—

For some weird reason it was. Hermione knotted her napkin. She wondered what was so special about this new girl if she was allowed to have data charmed into her head and to come to Hogwarts four years late. Hermione considered herself the most sensible person at Hogwarts, so it was no wonder she had already come to the conclusion that there was something about this new student the Headmaster wasn't telling them. _No shit, Sherlock,_ she thought.

Professor Dumbledore smiled calmly and waved the noise away. The many adolescent voices ground from a low roar to a dull murmur, and Dumbledore continued. "To California where she lives, magicked the amount of knowledge an average fifth-year knows into her mind, and took her to Diagon Alley.

"I'm not telling all of you this for the benefit of those willing to ostracize a so-called 'outsider'…" Here Dumbledore glanced at the Slytherin table out of the corner of his eye. He spared Draco Malfoy an especially long stare and got back to his speech: "Not to ostracize her, but to warn you all that this is a… momentous moment in this young lady's life, and I would like you all to treat her with respect for the first few weeks until she is at ease.

"She will be sorted after all of the first-years, so until then: Live long, drink well, and never associate with a troll's booth!" He beamed happily at them and sat among the very few patters of irritated applause. Even if most of the pupils hadn't been stunned into silence by this gigantic of news, the applause still would have been small.

At that moment, Professor McGonagall swept into the room with a gaggle of first-years in tow. They all looked so incredibly small and silly in their tall, conical hats, but despite this fact, no one could spot someone passing for fifteen. Everyone shrugged to each other; she was probably hidden behind some of the taller firsties.

Professor McGonagall reverently set the Sorting Hat onto its three-legged stool and stepped back. As always, the kids looked at it with fear and the older students with expectancy. It was frayed even more than Hermione or Ron could remember, and the stitches that resembled eyes had the sunken feel of a skeleton-thin man who had aged fifty years in one summer. Ron fidgeted uneasily. He had gotten of the Hogwarts Express only half an hour ago, and already everything looked foreboding. He supposed that should be, considering You-Know-Who had gotten himself a body only a few months before and killed Cedric. The Hufflepuffs still appeared out of it. Cedric _had _been the star of their House… it wasn't as if Hufflepuff had anything going for it except dumb tenacity.

The rip near the Sorting Hat's brim that served as a mouth abruptly shuddered and cracked open in song:

"_You all are wondering,_

_Smaller ones,_

_What I am here to do._

_So can you guess?_

_Oh please have fun!_

_The time is almost through!_

_Will it be _

_The house that's golden;_

_Gryffindor, too true,_

_Or will it be the _

_Lower one;_

_Slytherin—black and blue?_

_Perhaps—not?_

_Draw your lot—_

_The time is almost through._

_And so try that_

_Me, the Sorting Hat._

_And what does that mean to you?"_

Again came that confused applause, but instead of being annoyed, it was troubled. The Sorting Hat's usually croaking, good-cheer voice was meanly happy; oily and teasing, like a big brother holding a sweet just out of his sibling's reach. The unpredictably short song hadn't even mentioned Hufflepuff or Ravenclaw, just the two extreme Houses.

Gryffindor and Slytherin.

Black and white.

Good and evil.

Right and wrong.

Even the first-years sensed something was amiss; the edges of their group began to tremble with puzzled shifts and anxious whispers.

Harry Potter frowned slightly and tapped his fingers on the gold plate before him. Ron leaned closer and whispered, "What d'you think is up?"

Harry shrugged. "Hmm. Creepy though."

"Yeah, very."

"But you guys," whispered Hermione, "something _is_ up."

"Why, thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Who?"

"Never mind, Ron. Of course _some_thing is up, Hermione. The teachers know something…"

"It's not just the teachers. I'd bet Dumbledore knows something he hasn't told _anyone_. "

She stopped. Already, Professor McGonagall's crowish voice was pecking out the names from the paper, starting with "Abbot, Lucille!" The girl who could only be Hannah Abbot's sister stepped up, trembling like a cornered rabbit, and jammed the hat onto her head. When she was announced a Ravenclaw, her face turned as white as a drift of hail and she turned to her sister, who was sitting at Hufflepuff. When Hannah gently shook her head, poor Lucille dropped like a rock from the stool in a dead faint. Laughter was stunned out of them all, and pitiful Hannah blushed with shame for her sister.

Professor Trelawney volunteered to carry Lucille to Madam Pomfrey's office. She left the Great Hall Levitating the skinny body, muttering, "And did _anyone _listen when I told them Mercury foretold of a head injury due to a height? _No…_"

When the next boy ("Arter, Geoffrey!") walked up to the stool, Hermione lowered her head again. "I'm sure there are thousands of people whose magical abilities are dormant until they're older, so why this girl? And why go so far as America?" Geoffrey was sorted and Hermione, Harry, and Ron clapped automatically with the others. "Don't they have their own school?"

"Magnuscane. It's in… er, Maryland." Harry and Hermione gave Ron an aghast stare. Ron's ears reddened. "So I know something Hermione doesn't," he muttered. "Bill went there a few years back for Gringotts… I'm not an idiot, you know."

Apparently Harry and Hermione did not know this, because they both glanced at each other, badly masking a shared look.

"Oh, shut up! Stop being such bastards."

After giving Ron another very hard gaze and asking him if he'd inhaled anything foreign lately, Hermione continued. "So we do know they have a school there. Why doesn't this student go to Magnuscane? She doesn't have to cross all of America and _then_ the Atlantic just to get here if there is another school."

"And what's with the Sorting Hat?"

"Yeah…"

"It's acting all… cynicalWhen it spoke like that I felt like an idiot."

"Ron, we already went over this."

"Shut up, you—"

"Boys, boys. This needs to be taken seriously. What we have here is another scandalous _mystery._"She rolled her eyes, but that sarcasm couldn't hide the fact that she was interested, and when Hermione Granger wanted to find something out, then well by God she would do so! "I do hope whoever this is, she's smart enough to have read _Hogwarts, A History. _Especially in this situation. She has to adjust at an older age, and that's hard to do, particularly since we've a four-year head start on her.

"Wouldn't it be great if she were brilliant in Muggle Studies or Potions? And it wouldn't be bad to talk to someone who knows a little about Arithmancy or a bit on ancient runes…"

"Then talk to yourself, Hermione."

"Piss off!"

"And she swears too! Honestly, Harry, what's gotten into this girl?" Ron slapped a hand to his chest and let his jaw hang down in a parody of horror.

"Sure, fine. Be an ass, Ron. But about Dumbledore." Hermione's round face settled into seriousness. Her nose wrinkled a little and she bit the inside of her cheek. "It doesn't make much sense. Why doesn't he—"

Hermione would've continued, and her curiosity might have snowballed into a full-on rant, but at that moment there were only two children left before the Sorting Hat. One of them would be the last firstie, and the last would be the mysterious student. Since they were both girls, no one could pick her out by default. Ron pointed at the strawberry blonde one, but Hermione nodded resolutely at the dark-haired one. Ron shook his head. Hermione nodded. Ron pointed again to the strawberry blonde. Hermione shook her head, more vehemently. Ron whispered something in her ear. Hermione glowered. "Hmph," she scowled. "You're on."

The students waited with bated breath, when Professor McGonagall cawed, "Wyze, Winnifred!" and the strawberry blonde girl walked up to the Sorting Hat. Ron groaned and rested his head in his arms. Hermione pinched him and he wretchedly gave up a Knute.

"How could you know that?" he moaned.

"A woman's intuition," she replied calmly, breathing on the Knute and polishing it with her robes. "You're such a bad bettor, Ron."

Winnifred was put into Gryffindor, but her House didn't notice, much less the other three tables. They were all chattering, staring at the small brunette before them. Professor McGonagall consulted the list in one age-knotted hand and cawed, "Ziller, Rebekah!"

Everyone stopped in mid-sentence. Rebekah Ziller hopped up onto the stool and plopped the hat onto her head. The Sorting Hat was quiet for a moment, then it bellowed "Hufflepuff!" and a broadly smiling Rebekah skipped to her table.

Silence wreathed, invisible, throughout the Hall. It whisked around the students and teacher's throats, strangling them. No one could seem to find anything to say. So, was that the girl, or wasn't it? Sure, her last name was Ziller, which would be at the end of the firsties' list, but then again it could be a coincidence. Slowly, the silence evaporated and murmurs took its place. Professor McGonagall hadn't put the Sorting Hat away. She always put it away at the exact moment the last first-year was seated.

That meant there was still the mystery student left.

Ron's plain face broke into a relieved smile and he held out his hand. "Knute, please." Sulking, Hermione dropped the coppery coin into his palm. "Woman's intuition, _please_," Ron snickered.

"I actually pass my classes, don't I? Unlike you, Ron."

"If you get passed because of intuition, isn't that cheating?"

Hermione couldn't find anything to say to that. She had a phobia of cozening on schoolwork. Ron looked very pleased with himself.

Dumbledore rose. His fingers tented onto the table again, thin and trembling. He smiled warmly at the new students, and they gazed awe-fully back at him. Harry remembered the unblemished confidence he had had in the Headmaster that now was a tattered thing riddled with flaws and shriveled with disappointment. Dumbledore was great, but he was human. Humans weren't heroes. Of this, Harry was sure. There may be great men, there may be cowards among the men, but there were no heroes in the world. Heroes were for people who couldn't do anything for themselves and who whined and begged and fawned for the great among the cowards to help, _please _help, pretty _please_? Harry wasn't very open to the revered anymore. They held too many disappointments.

"Another year behind us, another before." Dumbledore's watery, transcendent eyes flickered over the room. "You first-years are all settled, I hope. Miss Abbot, your sister is fine, and wishes to visit you after the Feast. But before we have aforesaid meal, I understand you would all like to see this… 'mystery student'. Professor, bring her in, please."

Professor McGonagall stalked to the double doors and creaked one open. She poked her head inside and muttered something. But she paused. She creaked open the door a little bit more and walked in. The students could hear her querulous voice croaking, and then both boors flew open with a bang. Professor McGonagall minced to the head table, her face screwed tight in anger. Hagrid followed, blubbering. The parts of his face that were visible were bright red in anxiety, and his beetle eyes leaked brine.

"Bu' Professor… un'erstan'… the _boat _warn't even… not even the _boat!_"

Professor McGonagall ignored him, and he ended up slouching back to his seat at the teacher's table.

"Professor!" shouted McGonagall. "Professor! Sir! She's not…" She checked herself, breaking her sentence, and waited until she was half a foot away from the Headmaster's ear before she shared whatever it was she had to share.

Dumbledore's face went blank, then angry. The anger grew into real fury. It was frightening. Winnifred Wyze, sitting only three spaces down from Harry, uttered an animal-like whine. Dumbledore straightened to his full height of six and a half feet. "PEEVES," he rumbled.

There was nothing for a few moments. Outside, the rain began to fall harder. Before it had been a weepy drizzle; now it was sheeting down in splatters that wetly smacked on the castle's slate roof. It was the only sound in the Great Hall.

Nearly Headless Nick quietly drifted from the Gryffindor table. "One moment, Headmaster, I'll fetch him." Just as silently, the Bloody Baron got up from his place at the Slytherin table and followed. They floated to the great double doors and disappeared. Literally.

Echoing like a memory, Nick's voice rebounded from the hall. Cackling returned his question. Nick's voice reverberated again. More cackling. Then the Bloody Baron howled a bellow that shook the floating candles and sent a widely smiling Peeves the Poltergeist hurtling and somersaulting into the Great Hall. He stopped before the class tables, wringing silvery water from his jester's cap onto the floor and chortling. Dumbledore glared fiercely at him, but Peeves was amazingly unaffected.

"Ickle firsties!" he screeched. "My oh my oh my, iddn't it lurvly?"

"Peeves," said the Headmaster in a reasonable tone. "Professor McGonagall tells me that you saw our newest student board one of the first-year's boats."

"That she did, soshe did."

"Now, those boats are meant to be self-propelled."

"So they is, Headmaster, so they is."

"And I know that a poltergeist could easily possess that new girl's boat and have a little fun with it." Dubledore's tone was light and conversational. It did not match his lined face.

"Perhaps, maybe." Peeves did a back flip, making obscene hand gestures behind his back all the while. Seemingly, Peeves had forgotten he was transparent and that everyone in the room could see what he was up to.

"Now, Peeves, I'm only going to ask this once: DID YOU OR DID YOU NOT PUT THAT BOAT OFF COURSE?"

"Aye, but which boat, Headmaster?"

Before Dumbledore could do anything, the double doors banged open for the fourth time that night. Peeves flew away, doubled up with laughter and knocking down every suit of armor he passed. Nearly Headless Nick and the Bloody Baron were in hot pursuit; the rain cascaded at an all-time high, thundering down in a roar that drowned out even the Bloody Baron's wailing. Lightning threw everything into sharp relief, thunder almost deafened the clamoring students, when—

"Um… apparently there's like… a giant squid in your lake," said a person.

She was so frightened at that moment. Even through the layers of chill water that were soaked into her clothes, her skin prickled with nervous heat. She couldn't believe it. She hadn't even had a full day at Hogwarts and already things were going wrong. What had gone wrong, anyway? Oh, yes…

She had gotten knowledge from the Ministry, but that knowledge wasn't exactly like a Hogwarts fifth-year's. She knew spells, she knew how to brew potions, she knew Herbology, even a little bit on Runes—but she knew nothing about the actual school. Who the teachers were, the layout of the castle, the students, the rules—all of that was a blank except for the small bit on school Houses she had read in _Hogwarts, a History_.

She didn't even know how the first-years were to get to the school. Professor Dumbledore had escorted her off of the train, out of sight from the other students.

"Now, wait for Professor Rubeus Hagrid," the old man had said. She had met Hagrid in Diagon Alley the week before and knew she would have no trouble finding him. But she did _not_ know that the school had a poltergeist, and she did not know that he could start working mayhem in her private boat.

Hagrid had finally found her, clapping a meaty palm on her shoulder.

"Jus' this a way!"

Anxiety biting at her innards, she'd followed.

He guided her to one of the oarless ferries and told her to wait for him once she made it to the other side of the lake. She was going to ask why she couldn't share a boat with a few other people, like the first-years were doing, but she supposed the rain was too loud for him to hear her, because he just walked away, bellowing, "Firs' years righ' this way! Firs' years!"

She carefully stepped into the little boat. It pitched beneath her, and she wished that some first-year would mistake her for another and share her boat.

No such luck.

Hagrid ushered the students into boats, swerving them from her direction and herding them into others. She sighed loudly when all of the little ferries started to drift to the castle looming ahead and her boat was still empty… save for her.

She was halfway across the lake when things started to go wrong.

She had been at the far left side of their little fleet, near the back, so when the boat rocked and listed even more to the left, no one turned towards her when she called.

"Hello? Hagrid?"

The wood beneath her groaned, barely masking a fiendish giggle.

"Hagrid…"

When the boat's rocking became more frenzied and she was thrown from side to side, she screamed louder. "HAGRID?" The rain was filling up the bottom of the little vessel, and the sloshing water soaked her. She was well on her way to being terrified; out of sight from the fleet, much less Hagrid. Her knuckles gripped white on the prow of the boat, trying to hold herself steady. The ferry bucked beneath her and she was torn from the prow. She felt a fingernail rip sideways and off.

As quickly as it began, the violent lashing stopped. She was still for a moment. The place where her nail should have been throbbed.

She leaned over the water, panting. She was trying to see the fleet, but the misty rain was like smoke over the lake. "Hello…" she shouted, and she was ashamed even then to hear the quiver in her tone. _Calm it down; if worse comes to worst, you can always swim to shore. Stop being a fucking pansy. _Normally, she wasn't. But the past two weeks had been anything but.

_You can always swim._

But this simply made her stomach clench. Swimming in this vast, black lake would be like stepping off an ice cliff into a precipice. She swallowed. _Please, God, don't let it come to the worst._

She tried to position her feet clear of the water in the ferry and firmly on the wood. As she did, the boat gave one last heave and she fell headfirst into the ink water.

Before the yawning waves filled her ears—consuming her screams and belching a fear that could be felt—and a long, sinuous tentacle wormed around her waist, she was sure she heard the unveiled, manic cackle of a demon… or poltergeist.

It was another minute before the Great Hall had settled enough to see the girl in front of them. But when they settled, it was quiet enough to hear the drip of her clothes. No one could help but stare. It was odd. It was a travesty. It was undeniably, indubitably, definitely, without a doubt untouchably the most awesome thing any student had ever seen.

She was wearing her Muggle clothes.

Strange, but there it was.

Her skirt, stained a darker green by the rain, was linen and long, with an intricate design of gold beads sewed at the waist. She had been wearing a dark olive army jacket, but she had peeled it off and it hung, sodden, over one arm. Underneath her coat she was just as drenched. Her shirt clung like a second skin. It was a white billowy thing, with spaghetti straps, an Empire waistline, and a lace-up back. She stood, waiting.

Harry felt surprise dripping down his spine like the lake water on the mystery student's clothes. No one _ever _wore Muggle clothes on the first day of school! A few wore Muggle clothes on Hogsmeade trips, and a few more did during Christmas and Easter break, but never besides that. He looked at her feet. Her shoes were leather sandals that looked almost like something Jesus would wear. One was missing; presumably keeping the Mer-folk company now. Sandals, a tank top, and a light jacket?

In this weather?

This girl was stretching her luck.

Finally, after the shock of her clothes passed him, Harry found himself looking at her face.

It was a triangular face, with a sharp chin and sharp cheekbones. Her contradiction of a mouth was very round and small, and her nose was straight and short. Her eyes weren't something noticed right away; they weren't the brilliant green of Harry's eyes or the piercing gray of Malfoy's. From this distance, he supposed they could be blue-green, but he couldn't be positive. Her hair and already dried out a bit. It was blond with large, loose curls and was pinned up in a bun with a… chopstick?

All in all, she was an extremely interesting person.

Professor McGonagall stood and pulled a card out of her pocket. She looked at it and called, "Evans,

Rory, please step up to the Sorting Hat."

She let out a breath and stepped up to the hat. It was on a three-legged stool, and was easily the tattiest thing Rory had ever seen. Placing her dripping coat on the rungs of the stool, she reached out a hand to it.

Well, well, well, look who it is," it snapped. The slit near the brim grinned: the mouth of a hoary old cripple without teeth.

"Miss Evans. Do try me on and see what House it is you are to fate."

Its sniveling voice bit without teeth. She reluctantly picked up the hat and set it on her head. The brim seemed to constrict, and Rory kept in a grimace of revulsion. It reminded her of a boa crushing an unwary mammal. She lowered herself onto the stool before her knees could buckle. She didn't like that Sorting Hat.

Not at all.

"Hmm," said a little voice in her left ear. It was mocking and greasy. She wanted to rub her ears free of its congealed simpers. "Very interesting, very. More or less painstaking. That would put you in Hufflepuff, but what here? Analytical, very intelligent; that's a Ravenclaw in you if I ever sorted one… But how clever! Sibilant, you, and Slytherin _could _be your House… except how _gallant _thou art… Gryffindor…?

"No, what's in you is Slytherin and Gryffindor most of all. Did you see them, Miss Rory?"

"Who?" Rory whispered. She hoped no one saw her mumbling to herself like a fucktard.

"On the table to the farthest left, did you see the one with black hair? Glasses?"

"Yes?" Felt all eyes bore into her like nails.

"He's the mascot of Gryffindor: The Hero Harry Potter. How darling! And the boy to the farthest right: blonde and austere."

"With gray eyes?"

"Right again! How clever! Young Mr. Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. If their two Houses are the strongest in Hogwarts, those two students are the strongest of their Houses. They are opposites, Miss Rory. Now, here is my question: Who will you sit by?"

She had seen both boys the hat described. The one with black hair looked like a jock, albeit a skinny one, and the other (_Draco?_) looked like a snob or a scene person. Both made her stomach knot. They looked like someone worth getting to know. Like either one could be the best friend she ever had. Or the worst enemy.

"Come now Miss Rory; which one? Tell me."

"Alright… which do you think?"

"You are what I know you are. You are

SLYTHERIN!" It bellowed the last word out to the Hall, and explosive applause, laughter, and groans rebounded deafeningly in the room. She slipped the hat off and walked to the Slytherin table.

The girl—Rory, her name was—sauntered to the Slytherin's side. Harry felt a small bit of disappointment. It would have been exciting to have her in their House. But then again, if she was in Slytherin, perhaps he didn't want to meet her after all. Dark wizards came out of Slytherin.

"Too bad," said Hermione. "Well, what can you do?"

"Nothing, if she's going there," said Ron. They both laughed.

On the other hand, Draco Malfoy gazed with tired curiosity at the approaching figure. Her shoe squeaked with water, and he gave them a cold sneer of disdain. They absolutely _did not _work. And her hair would be in a hideous state if she didn't dry it. He hoped she wasn't wearing any eye makeup. He really didn't want to be near anyone with streaks of mascara running down her face like leaking raccoon eyes. And speaking of makeup…

Which was when he realized the only free chair at Slytherin was next to him.

Normally, every chair near him was taken, he being the epitome of Slytherin: vain, disarmingly handsome, cold, cruelly hilarious—no, he was understating himself, but so what? He had saved the empty seat for Goyle, who was in the infirmary with a cold. So…

_Of course. Good fuckin job, Draco, you twat. Of all the places. Who does it happen to be?_

Rory sat down next to Draco. "Hello," she smiled. Her voice was different; not high and stringy like Pansy's and not grunting and clotted like Millicent's.

Draco stared at her blankly. "Why are you talking to me?"

Rory rubbed her eyes. Dessert had just disappeared. She had sat through shepherd's pie and vanilla ice cream—the only two things that she felt she would actually eat at home—next to Draco Malfoy: the World's Biggest Ass and also the World's Most Alluring Male. How he did it, she didn't know. He had the rare talent of driving people off with his smug rudeness and pulling them to him with his charisma.

But now that she was at the Slytherin table and couldn't switch, she really wanted to go to the other table—Gryffindor. She wanted to meet that Harry Pothead and see what made him so special. Sure, she knew the whole Voldemort vs. Harry deal, but that didn't make _him _special, that made his name special. What it was about him…?

Dumbledore dismissed them, and as she was getting up she asked Malfoy, "What's this year's password?"

She didn't speak at all properly. _Year _was somehow transformed to _yeer _in her foreign mouth, and _word _to _werd._

"Hmm… Dunno."

"Yeah, you do."

"How dare you contradict me."

"Prefects have the password, and you have a Prefect badge on."

"It's not mine!"

"It says 'Prefect: Draco Malfoy'."

He glared sullenly at the floor. She followed him, only knowing that they were going down and down and down.

"Fine, it's 'marvel of blood'. Satisfied?"

"Very. Thanks."

"Uh huh. And get a different pair of shoes."

"What? How dare you!"

"What, did I insult them?"

"Only a little. These happen to be the greatest shoes in creation: all-leather handmade Jesus sandals. They are—"

"—Very gay shoes. Now leave me be. PS, you're missing one."

Rory looked down, as if just realizing she'd been going half-barefoot the entire time. "Oh… cum-guzzling gutter slut!" She stopped to look over her shoulder and the throng pushed Draco forward.

"Guzzling _what_?"

But she was already gone.

When they got to a blank wall, Malfoy shouted the password, and it slid back to reveal their House. As he walked in, he heard near the back of their group the uneven, wet smack of a pair of feet only half-clothed.

Rory felt excitement build up in her throat. The room was vaulted and dark. The dominant colors were green and silver, and the fireplace was huge. High-backed armchairs circled around it, casting shadows onto the ceiling. Rory both loved it and was unnerved by it. She hated her nervousness.

Before that Ministry official had come to her house, she had been normal, how she always was: laid back was what she was called. Now she was edgy. The Ministry official had said it was mostly because of that spell that had injected the liquidy neon glow of new intelligence in her brain, and it would wear off within a month. Already she was calmer than she had been, but she wasn't completely back to her old self. The thing that made up for it was her magic.

Rory went to a chair and sat down. Except for her shoe, she was completely dry; after finding her seat, she had taken out her wand and made a jet of warm air come out of it. Her wand.

That was what she wanted now. She pulled it out of her waistband, examining it. It was willow, fourteen inches, with a phoenix feather core. It was pleasantly springy and light. She couldn't wait for classes to start so she could practice.

Rory settled more into the chair. She stopped. She slid her eyes from side to side and, when no one was looking, she picked up a pillow and breathed deep its scent. She was right. It smelled of the undeniable, thick stench of pot.

Well, of course.

At Rory's old school, she had often been called a pothead because of her hippie-ish dress. She had, in fact, not touched a joint in a whole fucking _year_, but only her friends believed her. She'd had seniors come up to her, asking her to hook them up.

Rory couldn't believe it. It was just her luck she was put in the House where the chair cushions smelled like ganja.

She rolled off the chair and walked to the dark wood door with a plaque that said **Fifth Years**. The handle was an ornate ring instead of a knob, and she had to pull it out and turn it before it would open. Its greased hinges were silent as it swung inward.

Her dormitory was lovely.

The walls were deep green with silver sconces every two feet or so. Six beds lined the round perimeter, each with a trunk at its foot. The comforters were patchworked green silk. Silver bedposts came up from each corner, and white linen paired with green velvet made bed curtains. She found the bed with her trunk at the foot and began rummaging in it. She was glad the room was empty; she wanted to try something out before anyone else saw.

From the bottom of her trunk she pulled a record player. It was a novelty: instead of having a plug and needing an outlet, it was the kind that worked after you wound it up with a crank. Dumbledore had told her that no electronic items could be used at Hogwarts; the magic in the air interfered with them somehow and didn't allow them to work. So she had dug this old thing out of her garage and, after a solemn promise to her mother that she would not hurt them on pain of death, she had found her dad's old records and taken them with her.

She placed the record player on her nightstand and adjusted the volume. She put a record on the turntable, modified the rotation speed, and let the needle drop.

There was silence for a few minutes. Rory sat on the edge of her bed, hands clasped and prayer-like. All she could hear at first was the hushing crackle of the needle dancing on the vinyl.

_Just this; I _need _this…_

Then, to her joyful ears came the sound of a jaunty piano intro and six beautiful words:

"Lady Madonna/ Children at your feet…" 

She could have cried. Well, not really, but whatevs. Here, at least, was a tiny piece of her life that couldn't be left behind. Good old John, Paul, George, and Ringo…

A sudden surge of homesickness enveloped her like an exhalation of second-hand smoke. She turned up the volume in an attempt to overwhelm it.

Rory listened to "Lady Madonna" twice before changing into her pajamas and slipping into bed.

The nervousness had left her—for the time being—when she drifted off.


	2. Little Lover

Draco was bored.

His boredom had become appreciable at eleven-fifteen, and now, an hour and forty-five minutes later, he was more jaded then ever.

It had started out as a typical Back-To-School-Party: betting to see which first-year could drink the most, teasing Crabbe and Goyle with firewhiskey and laughing hysterically over what they would do to have it, smoking pilfered cigarettes, et cetera. But things had tapered off at eleven, and every single Slytherin had been blasé by midnight. The first and second-years had gone to bed, complaining of headaches, and the third-years had begun whining.

So Pansy had started a spin-the-bottle circle (fourth-years and up ONLY), but instead of mere kissing, the lucky—or i _un /i _lucky… it depended very much on who you got—couple was sent to a cloakroom for three minutes. It had started out amusing, but again the enjoyment leaked out of it in twenty minutes. So far, the fortunate pairs to go in the infamous hall closet had been: Millicent and Goyle, Pansy and Nott, a girl named Bertha and Crabbe, Blaise and a seventh-year named Quentin, Pansy again with Montague, and a sixth-year named Fanny and a fourth-year named Yorick. There had been some dispute as to whether Blaise could spin again, since it had been a bit of a slash spin. But Malfoy had been determined, and they had had to go. Blaise didn't mind; in Draco's humble opinion, he was about as straight as a rainbow. Poor Quentin, on the other hand, had come out of that closet white, trembling, and mentally scarred.

By now Draco was more than not entertained: he felt his brain would leak out of his ears if something didn't happen. He wished something would.

Draco didn't know wishes can come true.

Millicent went to spin again, and the group of Slytherins began cat calling and shouting as the bottle slowed. Just as it landed on Quentin, the door to the fifth-year girl's dorm opened. They all looked up in unison, and Quentin, taking advantage of this situation, moved the mouth of the bottle to Goyle.

Rory was peeking from the doorjamb. Her hair was pulled back into a rough, bed-mussed ponytail and the hollows beneath her eyes were tinged purple with sleep.

Blink.

"'S up?" she asked, squinting from the little candlelight.

"Having a bit of fun," grinned Pansy, leaning back on the heels of her hands.

"Doing what? Fucking loud. No wonder you all look like the living dead; you must never get any sleep."

"Come off it; it's only one!"

"Yeah, sure. If one is early in the evening, then getting date raped is my idea of a good time. Good night, and do whatever you want, but just keep it down."

The door began to swing shut.

"Don't you want to know what we're up to?"

Everyone looked at Malfoy before he even realized he'd spoken. He mentally raised his eyebrows at himself. What the fuck?

Rory paused. She considered Malfoy, her small mouth curving to one side. "Fine, preppy, what is it you're doing?"

"We happen to be involved in a very sophisticated game that involves social know-how and serious talent; talent that I happen to have an excessive amount of. Obviously, Spin-the-Bottle." He sneered at her.

She smiled contemptuously back. "Alright, preppy, do you want me to play?"

Malfoy grinned at the surrounding circle. "Fresh blood, ladies," he whispered, and licked his teeth. They all giggled again: social hyenas who fed off the weak and made them their own. "Why not? Come over here and sit."

The rest of the group piped up too:

_ i Yeah, come on, fish Don't be a pansy Don't bugger out You KNOW you WANT to /i _

Rory paused and stood halfway through the door. Behind her was her bed: soft, contouring, warm. And before her, House: different eyes, slitted against the firelight, and the glass in the middle of them. Cold, harsh, glinting. Draco saw Rory teeter on the edge of decision and topple when she closed the door behind her and walked to the circle.

The interest returned in a rush. Draco found himself sitting straighter as Rory took a place in between Blaise and Nott. Draco couldn't help but notice her pajamas were mismatched. Her shirt was a gray, skintight tank top that went halfway down her stomach, revealing a band of bronzed skin and her navel. A line of muscle went down the middle of her flat midriff, the effort of hundreds of sit-ups compacted into her stomach. Her bottoms were baggy, blue flannel trousers with navy plaid, cinched tight with a drawstring and low on her hips. Rory pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her wiry arms around them, pursing her lips unconsciously in an expression of one who waits.

"Hey," squeaked Bertha, pointing the mouth of the bottle to Rory. "She's a newbie in the game. She has to spin now."

Rory blinked and her mouth momentarily opened in surprise. "I… oh." Then her mouth hardened again. She sent dagger eyes to Malfoy, but she did a little slanting grin. "You failed to mention _that, _fucktard," she hissed.

Draco shrugged and straightened his silk blouse. "Omission is my specialty," he stated simply. His minions howled laughter, and the apples of her cheeks pinked. He smiled a sideways smile that somehow incorporated a silent calumny into it.

It was that grin that made her play. It was Draco's best weapon, and did that boy know how to use it. Rory found her hand grabbing the bottle ("Blair's Brewed Butter Beer", it said) and, with a flick of her wrist, spun it. Twenty-six eyes followed its nose. First it was just a shimmering crystal blur that captured the oxidizing yellow from the fireplace. It was slower now… A bit slower… Revolving lazily, teasingly… At Quentin… Millicent… Pansy… Crabbe… Blaise… Goyle… Draco… Draco…

Draco…

Pansy sucked in a quick breath and hugged herself. "Finally, things get good! Well, I think, as a special treat, we should up this one to six minutes. Agreed?"

It was a unanimous vote.

Draco couldn't believe it.

Moments later, after having knowing winks thrown at them and pushing hands propel them, Rory and Draco were in the cloakroom, defenses and masks laid aside. Draco had an elbow propped up on one upright knee; Rory was opposite him with her ankles folded.

Pansy and Blaise filled the small doorway in a vision of sideways glances and tittering, making sure their victims couldn't escape before the door was shut and guarded.

"Don't forget, slags," said Blaise, "you've six minutes and they better be well spent."

"Yeah, show that yoof a good time." Pansy added puckered lips to this declaration, and they shut the door, giggling.

They wasted their first minute merely sitting. Draco tapped on his pant leg, and Rory was somehow pleased at how off-guard he appeared. She knew she didn't look much better, though. She had nothing to say but "Uh", and nothing to do but sit like a flaming idiot.

"By the by, Evans, what exactly are you wearing? A bit snug for just sleeping, what say you? Having anyone over while you had the dorm to yourself?"

Rory's tongue unlocked. "Shut up. I just got here; who would I know? And it's a sports bra. Duh?"

Draco gasped dramatically and covered his face. "Oh, my poor eyes! You're wearing your second story knickers and nothing else? Why would you do this to us, your first day and we've already been tainted—"

"Oh, come on, I'm not falling out, if you haven't noticed. At home, people wear these in public all the time."

"Because Americans are mad."

"Because they work."

"Please, no bosom-business at this time of night… let's just skip it."

"Fine."

"Fine."

Rory licked her lip. Draco brushed off his shirt and smoothed the hair above his right ear. Rory rubbed her neck. Draco straightened his black trousers.

After a second or so, he began to nod. "Sure, he whispered to himself. "Why not?" He got to his knees and inched toward Rory. She looked up; sleep now no more than a long-ago memory beneath her lashes. Draco seemed to measure her critically, flint eyes taking in the tanned skin and sprung hair. He touched her arm lightly, felt her muscles jumped beneath the skin. She was wound up tighter than a violin string. He raised his eyebrows at her. She smiled, apologetic.

"Sorry."

"What's it with you?"

"I—did Dumbledore tell you all how I could come here?"

"Some Ministry official 'sparked the knowledge of an average fifth-year' into your brains."

Her eyebrows furrowed. "Sort of… I don't know anything about the _school… _but I know spells and stuff. And the…" she paused. "_Ministry_ official said that the side effect to this would be nervousness. For a month or so. He said my mind had to become used to the information it was given."

"Well, that's why the Sorting Hat put you into Slytherin, love. So I could show you the art of leisure."

"Nice."

"What can I say? I am without a doubt the hottest thing created in the history of man."

"Hmmm…"

Slowly, the smile dropped from his face. It was replaced by nothing. His face was ice. Draco placed his hands on her shoulders, looking into her eyes all the while. She did not jump this time.

"Fish," he said, not unkindly. "You do know you participated willingly in this little experiment. I mean, it's not as if you could gain nothing from this." His face broke into the first real smile she'd seen all night. "Considering."

"You are such a whore," she retorted, admiration leaking into her voice nonetheless.

"I'd rather be a slag than a prude." His pale eyes widened in sudden horror. ""You're not a virgin, are you? Say no! At least have snogged! Be it with a lezzie or a lad, I don't care, but at least have i _experience /i _!"

Rory pushed Malfoy's groveling form off of her knees. "Don't be an ass. I'm no slut, but I'm not a prude. Ask my ex-boyfriend."

"Rowr."

"Besides, even if I was a virgin, why do you care?"

Malfoy sniffed and smoothed back his hair. "You have no idea how much coaching I've given out, Miss America, and how bad some of my students were. i _No /i _idea."

She giggled at this and checked the thick-banded watch around her wrist. "Only two minutes left. Shame, shame."

"Come on, Fish, I know you want some."

"Ew."

He ran his tongue over the edges of his top teeth. "We've still time…"

"Go screw yourself," she said cordially.

"How?"

The look on Draco's face was of such innocent surprise she had to smile.

Suddenly, they heard laughter from the other side of the door. Like the bunched fingers of a smashing fist, the unspoken adolescent rules hit them, smothering other choices and forcing them to see in a new light.

Draco leaned forward and kissed her.

At first, Rory's petite, petal mouth was soft, but then she began to kiss back. He was glad she hadn't stayed gobsmacked and that she wasn't a total prig. He would've hated that.

Draco put his hands on her shoulders and leaned closer. She smelled strangely heady and sweet, like spicy smoke. He had a crazy urge to press her neck to his nose and breathe it in like it was what he needed to live, but she was kissing him back, her hands encircling the base of his skull, his hands moving from her shoulders to the hollow at the base of her throat. It was very innocent; without staring eyes and the danger of unfulfilling repute, it really was as Draco had said: a tender experiment. His lips moved from her mouth. She breathed in.

"Draco—"

As suddenly as it started, it stopped. Malfoy's lips, now bitter and unyielding, moved away from her jaw line. His rigid hands now felt like a strangler's weapons, and he unclasped them from her neck. His pale eyes had turned disdainful, and his smile was a mockery. "Listen, Fish: there must have been one thing we forgot to tell you. I'm not Draco. I'm Malfoy. Nothing other, nothing else. Now gather yourself and get your paws off me. Your features repel."

Her hands tightened into fists. "Oh, this is coming from the local bitch, isn't it?" she snarled. "And in case you forgot, i _you /i _kissed i _me /i ._"

"Piss off, dear. I don't believe you recall this, but I'm perfectly innocent. You seduced me, child that I am, and took advantage of my prestigious assets—"

The door latch rattled.

In a flash, Malfoy had plastered his face to hers, his tongue wretchedly filling her mouth. His hands raked down her front and traveled to her back, and she was helpless, fucking helpless; and WHY wasn't she doing anything? The thought came like a cold dash of water: because she wanted to be powerless. They both knew this, he most of all.

At that moment, the door opened, spilling light into the gloomy alcove. She would have stopped then, but everything was raw: each nerve, every fingertip was emblazoned with whorls of air and the cream of skin.

She heard Pansy shriek glee. "And when it gets down to it, so do these two!"

Malfoy pulled away snake-quick, as if startled. "Pansy," he sulked reprovingly. "We were just getting to the best part."

"Aw! Well, tell your monty it's got to wait; your six minutes are up."

"I can't help it," said Malfoy, standing. "These yoofs just jump at me…"

Self-consciously, Rory went into the common room, afraid of what the others would say. It turned out to be nothing; she supposed it happened so often they didn't need to anymore.

After that, no one wanted to play. With some good nights exchanged (as well as a few passionate kisses, more so on Pansy's part), the girls headed to their dorms and the boys to theirs.

Before Draco could disappear, he felt a pluck on his shirt. He turned and saw Rory. Brushing back his hair, he asked lazily, "What is it, my mistress of night?"

She didn't smile. Despite the fact that they were the last people in the common room, she spoke low. "What was that about? I thought you wanted me off of your pristine virginity." The tops of her cheeks were pink with anger.

"I've a reputation to keep," he said, as though it was obvious. "What example would I be to the firsties if they expect a sex-fiend and they get a helpless romantic?"

"A good one."

"Speaking of goods, good night, red-hot lover. Don't have too many erotic dreams about me."

"Don't worry," she said, rolling her eyes. But her anger had begun to melt. It hadn't thawed completely, but it had begun.

They went their separate ways.

As she pulled her bedclothes up to her chin, Rory quickly reviewed her second ever kiss.

What?

She had a reputation, too.

Rory fell asleep and dreamed of sweet nothing.


	3. Sympathy For The Devil

The clock declared 4:50 when it went off.

It was silent to everyone except her. She had bought it in Diagon Alley for that very purpose; she didn't want to wake her new roommates. It was a little silver wind-up clock, charmed so that its ticks were silent and the alarm could be heard only by the winder.

Rory awoke the moment it rang, but it took a while for her eyes to catch up. She sat in the dark of her bed while her eyes unglazed. When she felt mobile, she pushed the heavy bedclothes and was rewarded with a rush of cold air. She shivered across the floor to her trunk, painfully aware that in the pre-dawn, each diminutive sound was magnified. She slithered into a pair of running shorts, pulled on an Underarmor shirt over her sports bra, and strapped on her running shoes.

Tiptoeing across the dark wood floor, she unlatched the door, slunk across the common room, pushed open the entryway, and remembered she didn't know how to get outside. She groaned, decided she didn't want to test anyone's temper by waking them up, and also decided that, to get onto the grounds, she would have to wing it.

The dungeon hallways oozed moisture that beaded like cold fever-sweat on the walls, and the few torches called attention to the gloom rather than dispelled it. Her New Balance thudded on the flagstones like a heart in a skeleton's chest. Rory took a right turn and saw some stairs leading upwards. Feeling a bit more confident, she climbed them and turned left twice. She found herself in a more or less familiar corridor, turned right again, and was in a hall she definitely knew. She was just about to climb the stairs that led to the Great Hall when a heavy, velvet voice asked, "Where are you going?"

Rory inhaled a breath that wanted to be a scream and spun around. Visions of ghosts, demons… poltergeists, ran through her head. But there was no one, except a man.

That was even worse.

He was tall. That was the first thing she saw, and the first thing Rory thought about each time she saw him afterwards. Tall, hung with black robes that he had his arms folded over. His long, lank hair tried to hide his sallow face and hooked nose, but didn't succeed. His eyes glittered. Rory swallowed.

"I… Running? Sir?" She added the last almost hopefully, as if the old hail of respect would vanish this specter.

But it didn't. He remained, black, all-pupil eyes glinting. "Rory Evans, is it?"

She nodded.

He smiled, his upper lip curling unpleasantly. "Running? You didn't seem to be."

"I was trying to find my way outside so I could. Sir."

"Hmm. Quite. Well, Miss Evans, since we are here, I might as well introduce myself."

Before Rory could stop it, a line popped into her head, courtesy of the Stones. i _Pleased to meet you… Hope you guessed my name. /i _

"I am Professor Snape, Potions teacher and Head of Slytherin House."

He paused, so Rory, to fill the silence, murmured, "Yes, Sir."

"I expect you to know this school's rules, never mind your… situation. I ask respect out of you, Miss Evans, and that you take this seriously; all the more due to your situation. This isn't all fun and games; dangerous things are brewing. If chaperoning rules are later applied, your morning runs will also be banned. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Go along then. Oh, Miss Evans, you are not allowed out of your House from ten-thirty in the evening to four-thirty in the morning. Standard school policy."

"I'll remember."

"And… wear some actual school robes today. Just because you're from a different country doesn't make you something special."

Rory felt offence well up in her— i _What the fuck did I ever do to you? /i —_but at the same time felt ashamed, as if she'd deserved the nasty comment. "Yes Sir. I… I'm looking forward to Potions."

"Is that so? Well, I must be going."

He breezed past her. Rory felt frostbitten by his exit. She voiced a weak "Goodbye", but it sounded frail, even to her own ears.

She stole up the steps and found her way outside.

The air was numbingly cold from last night's rain, and the ground was a thick, pasty mud, but she ran.

It liberated her, somehow. There was nothing except what was in her mind; it was as if the wind, the grass, and the earth that tried to mire her down couldn't exist without her. It was all very soothing. The grass was lushly green, despite the mud, and the little hut by the forest looked very quaint and cozy, albeit dwarfed by Hogwarts. The lake reflected a grimy dirt-blue from the sky, glassy, save for the occasional ripple from the wind.

She ran for almost an hour, painful oxygen clamping at her lungs, around the lake, and then squelched through the empty, echoing Great Hall to the blank wall that was the entrance to her House. This time she met no one.

In the common room, she noticed a door she hadn't seen the preceding evening: b **Showers /b **,it said. This Rory was glad about; she was sweating and hadn't wanted to wake anyone to ask where to bathe.

She opened the door and closed it softly behind her. The bathroom was large and marbled; Romanesque pillars held up the ceiling, delicate marble sinks shared the left wall with elegant lavatory stalls, a sizeable bath pitted the middle, and to the right were several showerheads divided into separate stalls by partitions. Along the wall with the door in it were cabinets that held cream towels.

Rory took one of the towels and walked into a shower stall. She locked the door, hung her towel on a hook, and looked at the strange plumbing before her.

The showerhead was shaped like the head of a serpent with the nozzle in its mouth. There were ten knobs in the wall: two large ones, one with H in the middle, one with a C, and eight smaller ones. Rory turned the H knob and stepped into the spray. Feeling curious over the abundance of knobs and the lack of any sign of soap, Rory turned a knob with an amethyst set in the middle. Heavy foam that smelled like violets gushed out of a spigot beneath the knob. Rory turned the valve off and tried another one, this one with a ruby. She got pink bubbles that smelled like cherries. She tried varies knobs, until she settled for a cream with the faint aroma of fruit for her hair.

The last knob was weird. There was a stone, and Rory was pretty sure it was a precious one at that, but it seemed to change its mind as to what color it was as she looked at it. It gave off a bubbling, boiling, yet chill, soap that would've smelled very familiar to a certain Draco Malfoy: like odd, spicy smoke. Rory found out later that that knob gave off a different aroma for everyone; the epitome of their favorite smell.

She got out of the stall. Next to the towel cabinets was a trapdoor in the wall that said b **Laundry /b **. She threw her clothes through the trapdoor, snuck to her trunk (her clock said 6:07—and her roommates were still snoring), found her new school robes, dressed, and went back to the Showers.

She fashioned her hair into her usual style, with her curly hair up and skewered with a chopstick, and got her school bag. Wondering how all of Slytherin could still be asleep, she went back to the Great Hall for breakfast.

Hermione was eating a blueberry muffin and contemplating her new History of Magic textbook. She was looking forward to her classes. Professor Binns was going to be discussing House Elf revolts this year; Hermione was hoping to find some material to support S.P.E.W. She had acquired a few people over the summer: Hannah Abbott, Parvati Patil, and Lavender Brown were all willing to join. Including herself, that meant she had seven members: the four girls and Ron, Harry, and Neville, all of whom had joined last spring.

Hermione tapped her foot, and the sound echoed loudly throughout the chamber. The Great Hall was empty, with the exception of Nearly Headless Nick, the Grey Lady, Professor Flitwick, and herself. She buttered a piece of toast and turned the page of her book to b **Chapter Seven: The House Elf Act of Annulment /b **. She was just deciding that she rather liked having the Gryffindor table to herself, when one of the Great Hall's doors opened and Rory Evans walked through.

She was at least wearing her school robes, but she was still dressed more strangely than any other student who had walked through those doors. Beneath her skirt she was wearing black stockings and green tennis shoes, and she'd pinned a button to her green and silver cravat. She walked to the Slytherin table, her leather book bag jouncing on one thigh, sat with an expression that said, "Well, THIS is pointless", and spotted Hermione.

Hermione, realizing her mouth was still open in mid-bite, dropped her toast onto her plate and turned the page in her book, intent on seeming preoccupied. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Rory get up from her empty table and cross to hers. Hermione ignored her until Rory plopped down into the chair next to her.

"Hi."

Hermione looked up. "Oh… Morning," she returned, cautious and prepared for snobbery. Rory tapped on a gold plate. Hermoine saw her long fingernails were painted purple.

"So… You're taking History of Magic, too?"

Hermione glanced at the book's cover. "Who isn't?"

Rory smiled. "You know, if everyone's taking it and I've got the mind of an average fifth-year, it's amazing how little I know about that subject."

Hermione felt a smile creep onto her face.

Then stopped.

It occurred to her that Rory didn't have to do anything to get to where she was now. No hours of studying, no giving up on other extracurricular activities to focus on coursework, nothing. All she had to do was sit nicely while some Official put his wand to her head and said "Now this won't hurt a bit", and poof! Here she was.

Just like magic.

"Oh, I'm—"

"Rory Evans. I know."

"… And you are?"

"If you'll excuse me, I'm i _terribly /i _busy. i _Some /i _of us work hard for what we do, you know."

And with that, Hermione propped up her book, blocking Rory's face, and went on munching her toast. So there.

Silence from the other side of the binding.

"Okay… what the fuck?"

Then Rory's seat scraped back and Hermione was left with her toast. It certainly tasted a lot better than humble pie.

Erin Golbraugh was the fifth student to enter the Great Hall. Hermione was at her table, still buried in a tome, only her hair and the tops of reddened ears peeking above the top, a weepy Cho Chang was comforting herself with a mug of something-or-other, and at Erin's table, Ravenclaw, sat a sixth year boy named Willem Stradivus.

And at the Slytherin table was that yoof.

Erin decided to herself right then she would get to know the new girl. Not only was Erin curious and Rory Evans looked interesting, but how many people could say they were Rory's first friend? Uh, one?

Erin always looked ahead to see what she would gain.

She headed over to the table.

"Ravenclaw, eh?"

"Apparently."

Rory smiled again. Erin was cool. They'd been chattin' it up for only a half an hour, and already she could tell they could be good friends.

Erin pushed the conversation forward. "What subjects are you taking?"

"Oh… Potions, History of Magic, Defense Against the Dark Arts, Ancient Runes… uh… Transfig…"

"Transfig?"

"Transfiguration."

"Then just say it. Really, how much time do you save?"

"Whatever. Herbology… Astronomy… Charms… and… Oh, what was it?" She put her fingers to her forehead, thinking. Erin spotted a button pinned to her cravat and read it. b **No wucking furries /b **it stated.

"Ah!" remembered Rory. "That new class, Minds and Magic. Or something like that. No, Mentality and Magic."

"Really?" Erin frowned. "I haven't heard much about that class. What's it about?"

"Professor Dumbledore was talking to me about it. It's about, like, two things: using magic aesthetically and using magic… how did he put it… 'to ensue a regulation career in the Ministry of Magic.' So I guess it's an art class and an… Arer class?"

"Arer?" Erin gave Rory a doubtful stare; then her brow smoothed and she gave a small snigger. " i _Auror /i _! You mean Auror. Arer," she giggled.

"You see? Way too new for this school."

"I'm sure you'll be fine."

"Dunno. I can't really compare what I know to what everyone else knows, so I have this weird, sinking feeling that I'm… stupid."

"Hmm, I see what you mean…"

"Shut up, you… fat whore!"

"Oi! Alright, alright. If it makes you feel better… do you want to review with me?"

Rory looked at the ceiling. "Thank you, God! Yes! Sure! Maybe I won't be an idiot after all… Let's do Transfiguration."

"Okay."

After a while, Rory's assurance had taken a turn for the better. She soon found that Erin was an above-average student and that she, Rory, couldn't possibly know as much as Erin, but when she was done assessing Transfiguration, Defense Against the Dark Arts, and Charms, she felt better.

By this time, almost all of the students were having at their breakfasts. They continuously ogled Rory; after a few minutes, she wanted to yell at them to shut up staring.

"God, they, like, act as though, you know, like, they've never seen, like, a Valley Girl eat breakfast before."

"Hey, for once they're off Harry's back."

"Potter?"

"Who else?"

"What's wrong?"

"Did you hear about that thing that happened during the Triwizard Tournament?"

"Sort of… it had something to do with that Voldemort guy."

Erin winced. "Yes, well, when Harry and this student named…" Erin pitched her voice lower. "Named Cedric Diggory touched the trophy they disappeared, and went God knows where, and when they came back, Cedric was dead and Harry was babbling about how You-Know-Who was back from the dead and all this other shite."

Rory raised her eyebows. "Wow. And isn't it now people don't believe Harry?"

Erin nodded.

"Do i _you /i _?"

Erin thoughtfully ate some bacon. "Cornelius Fudge doesn't believe it. He's slandering Harry right and left in the i _Daily Prophet /i _. I don't know. I think there's mixed truths in it.And now Dumbledore's in all this trouble; he's been kicked out of the Wizenmagot—"

"The what?"

"Oh. They're like judges or… perhaps chancellors."

Rory nodded slowly. "Well, if that kid can stand it every day, I suppose I can bear it for a bit."

"They'll probably forget you in a month."

"Not if I keep my 'accent'. They'll be reminded each time I speak."

"True."

At that moment, a troop of Slytherins pushed through the door. Draco was at their head, and they filled up the room with their laughing. Erin let out a snort of disgust. "How'd it be that you went into here? Shouldn't you be in Ravenclaw with all of the smart people?"

Rory thought about that deeply for the first time. "I've no clue," she finally admitted. "Ask the Hat."

"How is it here?"

"Bad, but not bad. Good, but not. It's… amusing there, but at the same time…" She shrugged. "I feel like they'll eat me alive if I try to talk to them."

"Huh."

"Actually, you'd better go."

"Why? I'm not going to leave just for i _them /i _."

"Yeah, but if I'm in their House, I might as well learn how to be with them by myself."

"Fine."

"Thanks for the review, you fat whore."

Erin smiled at the joke. "Of course."

Erin dropped her cup of orange juice, slung her bag onto her shoulder, and walked to her table. Rory watched her go.

"Fish, why exactly was she over here?"

Rory rolled her eyes at Draco. "What, so now I can't get help with school work? Jesus H. Christ…"

"Must it be with Mudbloods like her?"

"A whatty-what-now?"

Malfoy stared at her as if he hadn't seen her before. "Mud. Bloody. Blood. Honestly, you act as if you never heard that before."

Rory's cheeks flushed a bit. "Sorry. Early in the morning; haven't had my daily caffeine yet."

" i _That's_ /i a sin!" Draco pushed a chair so it hit the back of Rory's knees. She sat hard, and Slytherins flocked around her.

"Grab that espresso!"

"Do you have the sugar?"

"Have this—"

"No, i _this i _."

Draco sat next to her, smiling his vulpine smile. "Just like a firstie, dear." His mouth curved up on one side. "We need to show you the ropes, Fish. Rules are: take care of your mates, but running's not cowardice."

A mug of tea was pressed into her hand. Now that she was surrounded by all sorts of caffeinated drinks and foods, the other students attended their own breakfasts, which consisted mainly of sugar and anything else that would cause hyperactivity. Malfoy grabbed a chocolate croissant and took a bite out of the corner.

"Rule number two," he said after swallowing. "You must never give away a House member. Understand?"

"Yes…"

"You do, you might as well be invisible… or beaten to a bloody pulp." He smirked again. "Number three, lying doesn't matter if it helps a House member. Number four… Actually, that's all you need to know now. We'll tell you more along the way. For now, just have some lovely tea and I'll get those class schedules." He walked toward the teacher's table. Rory looked into her tea mug. A two-inch layer of honey covered the bottom. She sighed and pushed it away.

The Great Hall continued to fill with students.

Rory sighed again. They still wouldn't stop staring at her.


	4. You're So Vain

Harry took one look at his schedule and groaned. He showed it to Ron, who tried to commit suicide by drowning in his bowl of milk and cereal.

"Potions first thing… And last! What. The. Hell?" Harry stabbed an egg savagely.

All Ron could manage as a response was weak bubbling sounds.

"Get your face out of your breakfast, Ron. Stop being such a drama queen."

Ron lifted his head, dripping milk and corn flakes. "Well excuuuuuuse me, Miss I'm-Going-To-Be-A-Wench-For-No-Reason. I thought the first day of school was your favorite?"

Hermione determinedly filled her mouth with bagel and didn't answer.

Harry studied the schedule again. "Hey, guess who with, though: Slytherins. We can meet that new girl."

Hermione tried to laugh sarcastically and choked on bagel instead. "I can hardly wait," she gasped, substituting a scathing tone for volume.

Now Harry stared at Hermione. "What's your problem? You're the one who's always telling Ron and me to just ignore them."

"He does have a point, Hermione."

"I don't need this." Hermione threw everything into her book bag, including a pot of jam. "I'm going to Potions early." And with that, she stalked off. Ron looked at Harry, mystified.

"Potions early," he mused. "What happened with her?"

Rory was waiting for her schedule when a screech filled the Great Hall. It set her teeth on edge, and she nearly threw up her hands to cover her head when Pansy screamed, "Mail call!"

Then she felt like a fool and quickly dropped her half-raised hands. Mail. Owls. Oh yeah.

A collective shriek, consisting mostly of girls voices, washed over the room. Among the downy grays and browns of the owls was a mahogany streak that most definitely did not belong; fibrous wings slapped at the air, an inhuman squeaking preceded the furry blur.

Comprehending, Rory jumped up onto her chair and shouted at the top of her lungs:

"ANGUS!"

The blur wheeled toward her, gaining speed, then just as quickly slowed and perched upside down on her outstretched arm.

Everyone looking could see now it was not a i _bat /i _. It was a flying fox, with large ears and golden eyes. It really did look like a fox, only sans bushy tail and plus wings. It gazed at Rory adoringly, whimpering happiness. "Angus," Rory cooed at it, giving it a piece of fruit. It, or rather, he, ate it while she untied the letter from his foot, then flapped out the window.

Rory was oblivious to the gawks she was getting. She opened the letter—not a scroll of parchment, but an envelope containing computer paper. Written on it in an untidy ballpoint scrawl was:

i Dear Ro—

You must be at that fancy British bording school by now. I can't beleive you left me! Dude, fucking England? What the fuck?

Well, I suppose I can forgive you… for now lol. But anyway, now that I've finally started this thing, I have absolutly no idea what to say… Except that your gone!

Well, guess who's in my math class? Fucking Anna Peterson. Seriously. I'll catch a STD just from thinking about her. And guess whose going out with her? Brett! I know; I cannot believe a foxy bastard (but still a bastard) like your ex would go out with her… Dude, I want to tell you good news after that, but I don't got none!

Well, see you over Xmas. Keep the real.

Love

Naima

PS, why do I have to send these thru your mom?

/i 

Rory stuck the letter in her pocket. After all of the excitement of moving, of leaving, of coming here… She'd forgotten about her best friend. Rory felt a guilty weight in her gut. She knew even if she did seeNaima during Christmas, chances were by that time they'd be on their way to being polite strangers, nice to each other for reasons neither could remember.

How quickly things change right under your nose.

"Anything wrong, Fish?"

Rory looked up. Draco was holding out her schedule. She cleared her throat, willing any embarrassing emotions away, and said, "No, fine. Just got a letter from a friend."

"Oh. RANDOM SEXUAL ASSAULT!" he shouted, and pinched Pansy's unsuspecting ass and ran. Pansy squealed and took off after him.

One thing Rory could say for Draco: never a dull moment. She looked at the first thing on the schedule. Potions. Yay.

On the way to the dungeons, Rory found that the Random Sexual Assault had evolved into a game of Spank Tag that all of the Slytherins were participating in. Rory kept finding herself spanked by random people as they stood outside of the Potions class, and things only quieted down because she yelled, "What grab-assery _is_ this?"

It was either that, or because she accidentally screamed it with Snape standing right behind her.

Oops.

Time passed.

The attention paid to Rory for her newness shrank a little, and the small respite Harry had been given began to end. It was as if they were on a scale: on one side, Rory, with her tie-dye and accent screeching for notice wherever she went. On the other side, Harry, winner of the Triwizard Tournament (by default, some were quick to point out) and witness to You-Know-Who's supposed return. Rory and Harry were slowly, but most surely, coming to a balance.

Speaking of the two, they'd yet to talk to each other. Hermione had resolutely ignored her, and Harry found it hard to introduce himself with Hermione dragging him away in the opposite direction. Rory was busy adapting: a process which was easier than she'd expected but still a tad time-consuming.

As October came closer to its end, Draco noticed two differences in the new girl.

One: she wasn't a nervous wreck anymore. It hadn't dwindled or gradually disappeared; rather, it left all at once on the sixteenth, when she came to class without jumping at anything and half an hour late. Draco found this an improvement.

Second: she seemed overly excited about Halloween.

"I can't wait, man," Rory said at lunch, eating a turkey sandwich in the common room. "Halloween is my favorite holiday."

"Really. What's so good about it?"

"Are you kidding, Pansy? You guys don't throw a party or anything?"

"Well, if by party you mean pilfer some Jim Beam… yeah, we party."

"No costume parties?"

Blank eyes.

Draco decided it was time for a good old fashioned drawl. "No, but I suppose if we all dress like you, that should be enough…"

He had to duck an incoming turkey sandwich on sourdough, the lettuce clipping his carefully looked-after hair.

"Ha ha, very funny, smart ass."

"You wench! That almost ruined my hair!"

"So no costumes?" Rory asked Pansy, suddenly ignoring Malfoy's abuses. Pansy stifled some snorts of laughter.

"Sorry my little yoof; I don't know why you think we dress up just for Halloween."

"Muggles do it. It's fun." Rory looked in the fireplace, thinking. Draco caught himself wondering exactly i _how /i _pure her blood was and realized they'd never been told.

"Sure, whatever."

Rory smiled. "Well, seeing as none of you have costume parties, then maybe I'll just throw one."

This is what the letters said: i 

You Have Been Invited

to:

The Monster Mash!

When: Halloween, half an hour after the Feast

Where: 7th floor… follow the leader!

Here are my rules:

Any member of any House can come

Sorry, but you 1st-3rd years… no party for you!

It's a COSTUME party. No costume, no entrance.

If you're having trouble with a costume, talk to a Muggle-born

See Ya There, MOTHAFUCKAS!

—Rory

/i 

"How lewd," sniffed Hermione, reading over Harry's shoulder. A Ravenclaw named Erin something was passing out the invitations randomly at the Gryffindor table. Harry could see Rory Evans at the end of the Hufflepuffs', just finishing up.

"Oh, what's so lewd, Hermione?" Ron snatched the paper and reread it. "What does she mean, costumes? Like at the Yule Ball? Because I burned those damned dress robes…"

"No." Harry took a last bite of custard and stretched. "Muggles dress up as scary stuff on Halloween. Like witches and goblins or whatever you want."

"It has to be scary?"

"Nah, doesn't have to be. That's just kinda the general idea Muggles have."

"Oh." Ron studied the invitation, thinking. "Well, what should I be?"

"You're not actually thinking of i _going, /i _are you?" Hermione asked, incredulous, as the last of supper disappeared.

"Why not, Hermione?"

"Because… we… have work to do!"

"Halloween falls on a Saturday this year; we don't have classes Sunday. We can finish everything then."

"You'll fall behind!"

"Hermione, what's the big deal?" Harry had never seen Hermione set against another person for no reason.

"I just don't like her. If you were smart, you wouldn't go." She stormed off. Harry had a sneaking suspicion she might be crying, but he certainly didn't want to get involved in i _that_, /i so he hurriedly began discussing costumes with Ron.


	5. Mister Party Monster

Hardly anyone touched their food during the Halloween Feast. Everyone going to Rory Evan's party was too distracted, and the unlucky first, second, and third years were too depressed.

There was an empty place at the Slytherin table. Rory had been missing since that afternoon, skipping History of Magic. Hermione had fumed about this, since Rory had gotten away with it, too; Professor Binns had forgotten to take roll of the students and had instead slept the entire time.

No one was wearing their costumes yet. Many people had written home, asking for mothers to send one, and two days ago bulky packages showered the tables, falling like rain and bringing an inundation of excitement.

Finally the last of the Feast was gone and everyone sprinted from the room. The wave of adolescents separated into four, each House going its separate way: Slytherins down, Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws sideways, and Gryffindors up. Harry and Ron were among the first to arrive, but someone had already shouted "Hodgepodge!" to the Fat Lady. They threw themselves threw the opening and into their dorm. They were already halfway dressed when Dean, Seamus, and Neville trooped in.

"Almost got trampled," panted Dean. Neville had a shiner to prove it.

"Are you going?" asked Harry, putting on his shoes. He had sent a plea for a costume to Sirius, who was ecstatic at having something to do.

"Sure," said Dean. "Me mum picked mine up for me. Look at this!" He pulled a box from his trunk and took out the cloth inside. It was an old-fashioned black suit and top hat, convincingly made to look cobwebbed and rotting. Dean put some black and white makeup on his face. The finished result was a skeleton unearthed from inside Dean: fresh from the tomb and crawling with who knew what.

Seamus and Neville wouldn't go; Seamus from lack of dress and Neville for insecurities. Harry, Ron, and Dean waited outside the portrait-hole for everyone else. Already a motley crowd was growing: a vampire, a few ghouls, a mermaid, a devil, a genie, more. Some poor kid didn't have a real costume, so he dressed like a Chav in hopes he'd be let through.

Finally, when about thirty-five people had assembled, they headed to the seventh floor. The Hufflepuffs and a few Ravenclaws were already there. Harry was about to shout "What now?" when a hand-written sign caught his eye:

** b Please Wait Til 8:10 /b **

Harry glanced at his watch. "It's 8:02," he told Ron.

"What're we supposed to be waiting for?"

"Dunno…"

Over the next few minutes more Ravenclaws and a crew of Slytherins arrived. They ended with a party of about 130. Harry vaguely wondered what classroom was big enough for all of them, but he didn't dwell on it. With each tick of his watch he felt the tickly, eager feeling in his stomach grow. At 8:09, he started to ask Ron, "What now—"

—When his watch clicked to 8:10 and something appeared in front of them with a crack. Parvati Patil, in a genie outfit that would've made McGonagall blush, gave a little squeal that Harry at first mistook for fear, but then he realized what she was saying.

"Ooh, how cuuute…"

The something was a house elf in a jack-o-lantern getup, he saw. Its batty ears and long feet and hands were the only parts that poked out of the pumpkin outfit. It made an awkward bow and almost overturned; titters dotted the crowd.

"Mistress Rory is waiting, sirs!" it squeaked. "She says Happy Halloween, sirs, and she asks Finky to tell sirs and madams to… 'follow the leader'! This way!" It trundled down the hallway with the students in tow. Harry thought the pumpkin looked like it was floating; from where he was, he couldn't see the little elf feet that propelled it.

Rory was indeed waiting in what the Fat Friar had called the Room of Requirement. She'd come a little before four o'clock and walked in front of it three times, thinking i _Need a room for an awesome Halloween party… Need a room…_ /i 

A door had appeared in the blank wall. Rory's mouth gaped, at first not believing, then she'd laughed and gone inside.

The room was large enough for at least 150 people. Halfway up the vaulted ceiling was an inside balcony that had spiral staircases and ran along three of the walls. Against the fourth wall was a stage. On it was a stand with a turntable (it ran on magic and not electricity, thank God), huge speakers, and a cardboard box full of records with names like i _Stone Hinge /i _by The Weird Sisters. There were even some records with Muggle songs that Rory knew couldn't be found on vinyl. Ecstatic, she went to the opposite end of the room that had a refreshment table full of empty dishes and a huge empty punch bowl that looked more like a fountain.

The last two things she found were another box, this one with orange and black decorations and candles ( i _Mr. Party Monster's Strobe Candles /i _) and a piece of paper taped to the top of it:

b Finky

(Just say the word!)

(and she'll do it) /b 

Doubtfully, Rory said to the echoing room, "Um… Finky."

With a whipcracking snap, a horrible little dwarf-thing appeared from out of nowhere. Rory tripped backwards—"HO-ly SHIT!"—but caught herself.

The dwarf's already huge brown eyes were wide, and it wore only a little toga made from a hand towel. It creeped Rory out, but after regaining her composure, she cleared her throat and said again: "Um… Finky?" She clutched her wand in her pocket.

"Yes miss, Finky the house elf!" it squeaked, and curtsied with the edges of its towel.

"House elf?" She looked at the paper again.

b (and she'll do it) /b 

"Finky, I uh, need your help."

"Gladly, miss!"

"Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother…"

"Oh no, miss! House elves is born to help, miss! It's our love!"

"Okay." i _God, what a little weirdo. /i _"Finky, I need a few things…"

As she listed off what had to be done, Finky continued to curtsy, and when Rory was finished Finky said, "Come back in three or four hours, miss!" and disappeared.

_ i Wow, Rory. That was easy. You are one cool motherfucking cat. /i _

"You bet I am," she whispered, and slipped out the door.

The rest of her day was spent primping. She had to admit, four hours was a tad long, but she had a bottle of Madam Silque's PerfiCurl Potion that took two hours to work.

When she was done and went back to the Room of Requirement, Finky had indeed done everything she was told: set out refreshments that would automatically refill, hung swags of black and orange silk on the walls, sent regular candles floating by the table and colored and strobe candles by the stage, suspended a banner that stated b **The Monster Mash /b **, and had filled the punchbowl with something that was both sweet and a powerful, but pleasant, kick in the stomach.

By this time it was ten to eight. Rory found her reflection in a window and tossed her hair. "How do I look, Finky?" she asked anxiously. Her biggest fear wasn't that nobody would come; her biggest fear was that only a few would when she'd prepared for more than a hundred.

Finky patted her leg sympathetically. "Fine, miss," she piped. "Don't worry, Finky knows it will be fun.

"Miss will see."


	6. Rose Tint My World

Draco was never as happy as he was dressed up.

It didn't even have to be in a costume; anything out of the ordinary made him feel especially… just i _good /i _in general. Sleek.

Lucius had sent him this outfit, but had given him along with it a stern lecture that had something to do with growing up already. Draco scowled to himself and smoothed his clothes. If growing up already meant not being able to feel like this, then he never would.

At long last they came to a door almost no one could remember seeing. Draco was in the front half of the crowd, somehow separated from his fellow House members. Finky stood at the door: the world's smallest bouncer. It held up one sharp hand and peeped, "Enter, sirs!"

Then the door opened.

Music gushed out along the deep throb of a bass line. Draco felt his neck prickle. No student had made something as big as this. The thing was, anyone i _could_. /i But no one ever had… why was that? If students ever organized anything they kept it within their House. They…

But he was getting distracted. The song he recognized; it was by The Sirens and it breathed into everyone the want to move, dance. The crowd surged forward by its own accord, sucked through the jamb like light itself into a black hole.

After the squeeze through the door, the throng began to diffuse a little. But where was their hostess? They all paused communally like a wary animal unsure.

"Oy people; let's PAR-TAY!"

This yell was met with a roar of approval from the horde that broke any awkwardness or uncertainty with a sledgehammering blow. People migrated toward the refreshment table but the majority flew at once to the dance floor.

Only Draco looked up to see who had shouted. Standing on a balcony, a pale light bathing her from a floating candle, was Rory. At least, he thought she was Rory.

The girl's hair was curly in a different way then Rory's. Each lock of hair seemed defined; every tress curved perfectly into the one next to it. The face was triangular, true, but it had been painted white to the jaw line, the small round lips dyed deep red. The spaces between her upper eyelids and brows were painted blue, and a beauty mark was penciled next to her mouth.

And that was just her face.

Her body was cinched in a black strapless corset, legs encased in fishnets that were held up by red garters. A red feather boa wound docilely around her arms. This amazing apparition started down the stairs, black heels clicking minutely on each step.

Draco suddenly wanted to hide. Rory was one thing, Rory he could handle, but this—it was something else to speak to someone when they were hidden by white paint and red silk.

But he was frozen. It was something, he decided, not even The Siren's song could touch.

Rory spotted two things and two things only when the door first opened. The rush of students popped through, and near the front, jammed so close together she didn't know how the missed each other, was Draco and Harry.

_ i If their two Houses are the strongest in Hogwarts, those two students are the strongest of their Houses._ /i 

Harry was dressed in professional Quidditch robes, the team being the Chudley Cannons. To Rory, that was the equivalent of someone at her old school dressing as a football player when he was already on the football team. Not very imaginative. And yet that something was still there— i _meet him just say hi scuze me while i kiss the sky /i _—like a magnet.

Draco, on the other hand, was dressed as something she recognized and something that made her skin sting. He was a droog, like in the movie i _A Clockwork Orange_. /i Being a pureblood, she thought he'd never seen a Muggle film.

The crowd quieted. Oh no. A thought

( i _here goes nothing /i _)

wriggled across the top of her mind like a viperfish and she shouted

( i _Oy people; let's PAR-TAY /i _)

something that broke the ice and then everything was fine. Rory breathed a sigh of relief and started down the steps.

"Welly welly welly welly welly welly well. Viddy who it is; dear old Malfoy, out for some of the old ultraviolence."

Draco turned. There she was. This Rory-double had her hands on her hips and one knee bent. He managed quite nicely to revert to his old self. "What gibberish are you talking at me?"

"Nice costume. Don't you even know what you are?"

"Nice costume. Don't you even know you look like you'd do it with whatever moves?"

"How charming."

"Well, that's me." He drank some punch and felt heat bloom in his throat. "What are i _ you_ /i supposed to be?"

"Janet Weiss from i _Rocky Horror Picture Show_. /i "

"…Who?"

"A character in a Muggle movie."

"Ah. Well, I must say dear, you certainly have improved your look since you arrived here. Very sex kitten, I must say."

She laughed. Long fake eyelashes like spider legs framed his right eye. The other was bare.

"Do you want to dance, sex kitten?"

"Don't mind if I do."

Harry wasn't sure what kind of a time he was having.

The party had been going on for a few hours now, and Ron had been "occupied" with three or more girls after having too much of that weird punch. It wouldn't surprise him to hear it was spiked.

He had mostly stayed on the sidelines, too uncomfortable in his own body to dance, feebly feeding off of the high emotions of others. He'd seen Cho Chang earlier, but Fred Weasley's idea of a joke was dressing up like Cedric Diggory, and she'd left, blubbing. Harry didn't know lust for a girl could diminish so quickly after seeing her with tears and mucus running down her cheeks.


End file.
